


Thirty Years to the Start

by Shriek



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell, Multi, Non Consensual, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shriek/pseuds/Shriek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been in hell for thirty long years. Finally, he gives in. Alistair makes him into something that is barely human. Then the angel comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Years to the Start

**Author's Note:**

> This one is pretty graphic. Take those warnings seriously, okay? Also, I mention the use of a metal pear, if you're not up on your medieval torture methods, this is what I'm referencing: http://www.medievality.com/pear-of-anguish.html

The knife is gone from his flesh. The voices, the screams, everything he was seeing is gone and there’s only the blackness behind Dean’s eyelids. He leaves them shut.

“Whadda ya say, Deanny boy? You can get off the rack for such a sweet little price. You’ll like it, I promise. Putting those damned souls through their paces. They deserve it, you know. Just like you.”

“Okay.” It’s barely rasped out through Dean’s broken vocal cords. Alistair asks him to repeat himself.

“I’ll do it.”

Just like that, the hooks in his flesh, the chains he was suspended from are gone. He is unharmed. But there’s someone else there now, a man with a sweaty, dirty face that’s so panicked, Dean can tell he hasn’t been here long. Alistair presses a knife into his hand and steps back.

“Show me what you’ve got, son.”

Dean tests the knife on his palm and steps forward. It’s impossibly sharp, but his skin heals over as soon as the cut is made. He stares at the man before him for a second before leaning in and quickly jabbing the knife. He comes away with one of the man’s eyes. He takes the other, twisting the blade in his socket.

“Very good, take the eyes first so he can’t see the rest coming. You’re a natural.”

Dean thinks for a moment and before he can act, Alistair is handing him the blade he was thinking of. Dean uses it to slowly carve away the skin on the man’s face. He lets the screams wash over him as the man flails against his bonds, splattering blood on Dean’s face. He cuts off each ear, carves out the lips and split’s the man’s tongue in half, listening intently as he gurgles and chokes on the blood. The two split muscles of his tongue twist in his open mouth. Dean is fascinated by it. He begins cutting sections of the man’s fingers off, taking each fingertip first, then moving down from there. He takes two of them and shoves them in the drooling, blood filled mouth, down into the throat where they can’t be spat out. The man chokes and a fingertip comes flying out of his mouth. Alistair laughs.

“Oh, I have plans for you. You’re gonna go far with me here to teach you.”

Dean ignores Alistair’s words, just keeps cutting and jabbing and twisting the knife in flesh. 

“Here, try this now, trim him down a bit.” He hands Dean a knife designed to cut flesh from bone. “It gets boring if you use the same tool for too long. We want to offer a variety of sensations to the customer.” He laughs.

Dean can’t feel the stretch of time wear away, just knows that the body will not die, that it’s not really a body, but a damned soul that he is destroying endlessly. Eventually there’s nothing left to tear or stab, but the body is still moving, writhing and bleeding. Alistair puts a hand on his shoulder and grins.

“This is a beautiful start, beautiful.” 

The body suspended before him fades away, and another one appears. It’s a young man, well toned and thrashing against the chains. He’s angry. That comes as a surprise. Dean has known fear, heard the screams of anguish, known hopelessness and doubt, but never has he seen anger here.

“Come on man! All I was trying to do was save my sister! She’s thirteen! I go to hell for that?”  
Something pricks in Dean’s mind, some flash of recognition, but it doesn’t reach the surface because Alistair is handing him a red hot poker and encouraging him to go for the sensitive skin on the inside of the thighs. Dean stares for a second more, but once he plunges the hot metal into the man’s thigh, the screams wash over him and renew his energy, making him forget everything else. Alistair makes suggestions as Dean goes, casually telling him that the skin between the fingers is extremely sensitive, and that his forehead will bleed wonderfully. 

The man cries for his sister, and Dean learns quickly that every soul clings to one thing when it’s torn apart. After countless souls have come and gone under his hand, Dean starts to see it. All the other demons whose job is to torture can see human souls. They grow dim the more the soul is broken. Dean never stops to wonder why he can’t see his own. He doesn’t remember having one. There isn’t time to stop and ponder things in hell, so Dean never has time to consider the fact that he no longer distinguishes himself from the demons around him. Dean sees, like they do, beyond the physical manifestations to the glowing life of the soul, the actual being that he is tearing apart. He hears and knows these souls as they break beneath his hand. And he finds that he enjoys it. It’s a thrill that keeps him going, to watch the glow become dirty and dull. It feeds him to dig in and take apart something so pure and whole, too clean to belong here. 

**********************

“Please! PLEASE! My sons need me, they’re alone. Who will take care of them?”

“They need you?” Dean sneers. “You’re a worthless mother. They didn’t even love you.” 

Dean steps back, watches with a smirk as the woman’s face changes. He knows the scene that is materializing in her eyes, having put it there himself. This is Alistair’s specialty, reaching into the broken souls and putting all the worst of them into visions that become the soul’s new reality. Dean was more skilled with blades and chains, but he picked up quickly when the souls started displaying themselves to him. He twisted their fears and losses into visions that consumed a soul completely. It broke them in a way Dean found intriguing and new.

“That’s right bitch. You gave up everything for them and they hated you.”

Dean pushes her further, tracing her tear tracks with the tip of his knife. Blood mixes with the tears and drips off her face as her whole body shudders. Dean goes in with the knife while she sobs, cutting the noise off and causing a scream to replace it. He can always tell when he has a soul at that breaking point, when they simply can’t take any more. Sometimes it doesn’t take long, and sometimes Dean has to completely shred the light and body before him.

**********************

Alistair throws a girl at his feet, pretty and young. With the first thought flashing through his head, Alistair is growling,

“Yes. That’s right Dean. You want it. Take it, it’s yours.”

He needs no more encouragement. Hell is fluid like a dream, so Dean doesn’t actually have to remove any clothing between pinning the girl down, and pushing into her. Her screams drive Dean faster, raking his knife down her back as she struggles desperately to get away. He bites hard into her neck, tasting blood and licking his lips. He kisses the girl roughly, pushing her own blood into her mouth. Blood spills between her legs and over Dean’s hands as he grips her torn back. He smears it over her breasts and face, laughs and licks at her chest.

This is his favourite thing, tearing into a soul both physically and mentally, a scar that cannot be forgotten. He likes it when he’s the first, digging in and wrecking them before he throws them away to get passed down the line, taken endlessly under knives and fucked like the useless damned they are.

**********************

He forces the metal pear into the ass of a middle aged man, twists the handle and bites at the man’s lips as he screams, the pear expanding and tearing him open. Then he yanks it out and shoves himself in, the blood slicking his way, hot and wet. He forces himself in the man’s throat, letting him choke as his own blood trickles down his throat.

Alistair is there as always, and when Dean tosses the man aside, there is another, this one a bit more Dean’s style, thin and young and terrified. He grabs him by the neck and pulls him upward with inhuman strength. He reaches down with the other hand and flicks the knife, splitting the boy open. He feels the blood gush onto his legs and he swipes his fingers through it, shoving them in the boy’s mouth. Then a blinding light fills his senses and the boy hits the ground hard when Dean drops him.

Alistair is frozen and tense beside him when the light dims, but Dean is cocky and eager for this new event to unfold, whatever it is.

“Angel,” Alistair hisses. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come for this soul.”

Dean smirks when he realises that the scruffy angel is gesturing at him. “Me? Must get boring up in heaven. The angel’s come for a good time!” He holds his knife loosely in his hand and imagines all the things he’ll do to the pretty, pure, lost thing. What can one angel do in hell?

He jabs at the angel with his knife, but the angel is well out of his way before Dean can reach him. Dean keeps slashing and reaching, but the angel keeps his distance until he begins to look impatient, almost annoyed.

The angel surges forward and Dean prepares his knife, but before he gets a chance to strike, the angel clamps a hand on his shoulder and Dean’s entire body burns. He snarls and thrashes to get away, but he is somehow fused to the angel from that one point of contact. The pain is white hot, like nothing Dean experienced in hell or in the life from before that he doesn’t remember. Dean sinks his knife into the angel’s shoulder, but the angel just pulls it out and tosses it away. Dean howls and digs his fingers into the angel’s chest, pushing with all of his unnatural strength, but nothing gives. He fights in panic like a cornered animal, biting and kicking at the immoveable being holding him tightly. The angel looks him in the eyes, and once again, a glow lights up hell. But this time it’s coming from inside Dean. As the angel fights up through the layers of hell with him, the glow seems to give them aide, protecting them from some of the demons that try to keep them there. Dean doesn’t stop trying to escape, but when he’s pulled up to the surface, things start falling away, and he remembers.

**********************

Dean is reliving his years in hell. Bright, terrifying flashes of the chains and screams overwhelm him until he thinks he won’t be able to stand it, only to fade away and be replaced by a new scene of torture.

The sensations that surround him in the space between these visions are beyond description. It’s as though every single molecule of his body is filled with some sort of burning hum, yet he has no body. There is no beginning or end to the feelings and nothing to be feeling them with. The next memory hits him much harder than the others did.

**********************

He is being torn apart, ripped into by something he can’t see. This time he is aware of his body, but only in the sense that he can feel it shredding under invisible claws. The raking pain is the only physical awareness he has. Someone is screaming ‘No! Stop it!’ but Dean can’t see who, can’t see at all. Can only feel.

After that it’s a rush of images, sounds and sensations so fast and strong that he can’t make sense of any of it. It’s all familiar, his in some way, but he can’t tell how or slow anything down enough to process it. 

“Sammy,” he moans. It’s the first thing that comes to him clearly. His Sammy. That means something. Everything. He just doesn’t know why. The memories continue to pour through him until it’s too much, and he passes out.

Dean opens his eyes to a blinding light that slowly resolves itself into a man with bright blue eyes. He doesn’t know who the man is, but the word angel comes to mind.

“Hello Dean. I am Castiel. I have remade you. You will not remember this.” Then he puts a hand to Dean’s forehead.

Dean wakes up in the dark, in a wooden box.


End file.
